“Let me see you, child.” I beckoned her forward, smiling as kindly as I could.
Eleonora rose from her curtsey and stepped daintily in my direction. I took her face in my hands, gazed into her eyes. Honest eyes. Intelligent eyes, though mild. Despite her young age, she was not afraid. That pleased me; a timid wife would be a poor choice for Edward.
“Are you well read, Eleonora?” I asked. If Alphonso had been remiss with his sister’s education, I would see that such a lack was soon rectified. My son’s wife would not be a fool, either.
“Yes, your Grace,” Eleonora said to me, unexpectedly speaking in my own Provencal tongue. “I am lettered and well-read and have knowledge of languages other than my own. I hope this acceptable to you…and to my dearest husband, Prince Edward.” She glanced over at my son, who was watching his new wife with an adolescent adoration I found surprising but heartening. I had not thought my son, often so stern, with such longing for manhood and war, would gaze on his bride with such open affection.
“It is most acceptable and pleasing to me, and to his Highness the King. From now on, you will be called Eleanor…the same as me. That is how your name is pronounced in English, and it is what the English people will know you as.”
Eleonora, Eleanor of Castile, nodded. “His lordship, my husband the Prince, has already begun calling me Eleanor, your Grace. When we first met, he told me it was because in many ways I reminded him of you.”
I smiled. I thought we had we had made an excellent match for our son. Made even more attractive by the following Peace Treaty with King Alfonso, in which he released any claim on the land of Gascony and swore to let it remain in the hands of the Kings of England, both now and for all time.
Henry looked less careworn than he had in years; he laughed more, smiled more. Gascony was ours, the rebels subdued, and a dangerous foe, Alfonso, had been turned into an ally by a profitable marriage. Full of energy in a way I had not seen for years, the King paced our chamber, looking as if he might like to leap upon a steed and ride like a madman to unknown destinations.
“Henry, you are like a caged beast!” I exclaimed. “What is on your mind? I can tell you are planning something.”
“I am. I do not think we should return to England just yet, wife,” he said, “although I would dearly love to see our newest daughter, Katherine, and I am sure you miss her too…”
I bowed my head. The baby was often on my mind, but I knew my duty was with my husband and sons. The nurses would look after Katherine well.
“First, I would visit the great abbey of Fontevraud, where my mother was recently laid to rest, dying as a nun of the House, her former sins and capriciousness atoned for at the end. Fontevraud is also where the mighty Lionheart, and my grandparents Eleanor and Henry lie.”
“If it is your wish to go, we shall,” I said. “It would be a noble and respectful journey to make. We must not forget those who made us what we are.” I crossed myself.
“I also think there should be something in this journey for you too, Eleanor.”
“I am your wife; it is my duty to accompany you, Henry. I ask for nothing.”
“No, I insist. After I have prayed at the tombs of my forebears, how would you like to see your sister, Queen Marguerite? I know you were once close!”
My face lit up at the thought of seeing my sister again. “Oh Henry, I would be so pleased! Much has come between Marguerite and I, as is to be expected of two queens in rival countries, but I would build bridges with her again. She is my much beloved sister. And oh, to see the glories of Paris and King Louis’ court! I have heard it is magnificent.”
I paused, suddenly shaking my head, my mood darkening. “I scarcely know what to say. Can it truly be possible, Henry? To go there in safety and amity? You and the French King have often been at loggerheads.”
“Louis has invited us for Christmas,” said Henry. “I know it sounds impossible, but it is true. He wishes to make amends.”
“A miracle,” I breathed.
“From what I hear, Louis is a much changed man,” Henry warned. “As you are aware, he went on Crusade in the Holy Land and failed miserably in his task. Thousands of French soldiers were killed. It has twisted his heart, making him monkish and subdued with grief. He hates sin with a passion—more than most pious men—hence he even burned the lips off a man he found guilty of blasphemy.”
“Burned them off? That is a cruel punishment, even for bitter sin. Surely, death would have been kinder than such torture. My poor sister, if Henry has been so turned in his mind. It makes me want to visit her even more, to ensure that she is well.”
“We will go, Eleanor. We will go to Paris, to Louis’s court. We have made allies with Spain…now let us work upon the good will of the French!”
Shining in the sun, Fontevraud Abbey appeared through the morning haze, layers upon layers of white finials and soaring arches. In the humble nun’s graveyard, the Abbess Mabile greeted Henry then guided him to the unadorned tomb of his mother, the infamous Isabella of Angouleme. The grave was a simple structure, marked by just a stone with a cross; exactly the sort of thing Isabella, ever mindful of her station, would have despised…unless she did indeed have a huge change of heart once she was veiled as a nun.
Henry dismounted his horse and to everyone’s surprise, not least of all mine, flung himself on the grey stone and began to weep. “This is not good enough, this humble stone!” he cried. “I want my mother moved!”
Abbess Mabile looked startled. “Moved?”
“Yes!” Henry rose, tears still streaming down his face, and pointed at the abbey. “She may have become a nun but she was once a queen…and the mother of a King! Her bones must be lifted and taken inside the choir, to be buried near my dear grandparents, Henry and Eleanor! I will pay for a marvellous coloured effigy to lie above the grave.”
The Abbess still looked a little startled, but much less so once Henry had mentioned that he would pay for the Queen Mother’s new monument. “I am sure, my lord-King, that we can make this possible. A fine tomb…and perhaps a donation to the Abbey, for prayers for the soul of Her Highness, Isabella.”
“Whatever you wish, Abbess, whatever you need,” said Henry, nodding and wiping his tears. “Take me to the abbey’s guest house, where we can talk and make arrangements for the tomb and the reburial.”
Henry went off with Abbess Mabile, so obsessed with thoughts of his mother’s monument he did not even glance back at me, and I was left to seek my own quarters with my ladies. We sat in the gardens awhile, resting, but then grew fidgety as boredom set in. “Dare we go out?” asked Willelma. “I am curious to see the church, and the effigies of the King’s illustrious grandparents.”
“Of course we can go out,” I scoffed. “I am Queen, and I have a need to pray!”
I took Willelma with me into the church. There, in the nun’s choir lay the colourful gisants of Henry’s kin. Crowned and stately, Henry II lay in repose, a fierce man now at peace; at his feet was the great Lionheart, who had expressed his wish to be buried by his father while on his deathbed at Chalus.
But it was Eleanor of Aquitaine who intrigued me the most, appearing tall and sturdily made, with skin touched by the sun, a benign smile on her lips, a book held in her hands. An effigy of a woman in life, not in death. She seemed to smile at me…but surely, that was only from the movement of the candle flames?
“We will pray for them, Willelma,” I said to my old friend… and so we did, up by the altar, ringed by fluttering candlelight, but I said the most prayers for Eleanor…and to her.
I prayed this Eleanor would be as tough, intelligent, and well-remembered as the former Queen of England.
Once the business of Isabella’s new effigy was sorted, the royal party journeyed on to Pontigny, where Henry and I paid our respects at the Shrine of Edmund of Abingdon. Edmund Rich was now considered a saint; he had wed Henry and I in Canterbury all those years ago. He had often fought with my husband then, but in his newfound holin
ess, such secular matters were forgotten.
Then it was on to Chartres, where the French people ran out to greet us. We had not expected adulation from those who had been our enemies, but they came out in the thousands to greet us, wrapped up in warm woollens against the biting northern winds.
It was magic…To the bellow of brazen trumpets, we entered the city gates nearest to the magnificent cathedral, where Louis and Marguerite were waiting. Snow was falling, thin as lace upon the manes of our horses, and all down the streets gleamed rows of torches to light the way. Chapels and monastic churches lifted stone spires into the sky, reverberating with bells, and on the nearby river, blue-green with a thick, immoveable rind of ice, men, women and children skated on skates made of bone.
Henry loved every moment of our procession. He knew he was not popular in England, but strangely, here, in a place of supposed enemies, he was admired. He waved and smiled, and his face shone like a beacon in the winter gloom.
At the Cathedral, we met King Louis and my sister, Marguerite. Louis surprised us both; we had heard the rigours of his failed crusade had changed his manner, but to our eyes, now he did not even appear a king. He had cropped his hair nigh as short as a monk’s and wore dull brown robes that looked itchy and worn. A black cross inlaid with chalcedony glittered on his chest, its harsh colour drawing any warmth from his face, which bore the last traces of ravaged beauty, for he had once been a handsome man.
Marguerite had changed too, grown older, stouter. She was still beautiful, but there was a hint of sorrow in her thoughtful eyes and the first lines of worry scoring her brow.
While our husbands talked, treating each other, surprisingly, like old friends rather than one-time enemies, I went with Marguerite to her solar, where fires in pits on the floor kept the room warm and cosy, protected from the snow and ice outside. Huge tapestries hung from the ceilings: blue and gold, the lilies and the fleur de lys, a sea of bright-eyed daisies (also known as ‘Marguerites’) and kneeling unicorns with horns of silver laid in the laps of fair-tressed maidens.
Dismissing our women, we embraced as if we were young girls. “It has been far too long, sister,” I said to Marguerite.
She nodded. “Yes…but so it must be. A wife must follow the will of her husband, even if she must lose the love of her sisters. Especially if she is a queen.”
“You have never lost my love, Marguerite,” I retorted, shaking my head emphatically in denial. “Not even in the worst fighting between our respective kingdoms.”
“I know, Eleanor…but in truth it was not you I was thinking of, but our sister Beatrice! Beatte loves us not, I fear, and often causes mischief. Our father was foolish when he granted all of Provence to her in his will. And she did not even have the decency to give us the money he willed to us! ”
I thought of my youngest sister, remembering a winsome child indulged by my mother in a way contrary to the rest of us. Marguerite and I had been strictly schooled to excellence, our learning extending far beyond mere womanly arts, encompassing philosophy, politics, history and religion. Sanchia, being of somewhat lesser intellect than the rest of the ‘boys’, was adept at all the graceful, womanish things—sewing, singing and dancing, and her piety was notable.
But Beatrice was…different from all of us. Our mother had allowed her to have her own way in most things. She had grown up beautiful and spoilt, holding tightly to what might not have rightfully been hers, and yet envious at the same time—little Beatte wanted a crown like her older sisters.
Sometimes such ruinous indulgence came about when a child was last-born in a marriage. I thought of my own new baby, Katherine, that tiny, pretty child left with nurses at Windsor, and felt a sudden gulf open beneath my heart. For all that I wanted to see Marguerite, my mother and even erring Beatrice, I needed to see my infant daughter.
I tore my thoughts away from Katharine, not even two months old. “For all her faults, though, Beatrice is on her way to Paris with mama. She could have refused to meet us and kept up silly grievances. We must not argue with each other this Christmas. It will be almost as old times.”
“Yes, it will,” Marguerite smiled, “the four sisters, all of high renown, and their wondrous mother. The ‘boys’ of Provence! Sanchia is coming too, is she not?”
I clapped my hands in delight. “She is indeed, the desire to see you, mama and Beatte conquered even her natural timidity! Oh Marguerite, this shall be such a special time for all of us.”
“I wanted the whole family here, for my heart is sore…Louis’s Crusade, the disaster of it all has grieved me. It started so well, when Damietta fell…but then…” she took a deep breath, “the weather conquered the knights where men did not. The blazing sun…and then the rising of the stagnant Nile. They were weakened already before they fought the battle of Al Mansurah, to disastrous consequence. Louis was taken prisoner ….”
“But you have him back!” I said brightly, not wanting her melancholy to mar our reunion, as selfish as that might seem.
“I do…but the cost of his ransom was at great cost to France, in terms of money and reputation! And he is a changed man. Failure changed him.” Marguerite sat down; the winter light, streaming through the slit of a window made her face look unexpectedly old. “Life has not been easy for me, Eleanor, although you might not think it. When Louis’s mother Blanche died, I believed relations would improve between my husband and me without her interference, but Louis loved her dearly despite her possessive nature, and sank into even greater despair over her demise. Eleanor, Eleanor…”
Marguerite leapt up again and began to pace about the chamber, his long skirts swinging over the rush mats. “You can see what has become of Louis. He does not dress like a king, as you’ve observed with your own eyes. He eschews royal ermine, and says he despises scarlet dye. He forbids dicing at court, and banished most of the Jews from France. He has harlots flogged if he can catch them. He even had a noblewoman publicly executed for murder; the punishment was just but I had begged for a private death to spare her family the shame. Louis said no, the people would watch a sinner die. I said I did not think that was a very Christian attitude and told him so. He went mad; I thought he might strike me.”
Marguerite beckoned for one of her ladies to come in from where she lurked in a doorway embrasure. She brought a goblet of wine; I could see my sister’s slender fingers trembling as she took it. “He wears a hair shirt, Eleanor. Wears it all the time, till his skin is red and oozing. Even then, when he can bear the shirt no more, he dons a hair belt in its place! Frequently he scourges himself with rod and chains; many a night he wanders about the palace with his robes soaked in blood.”
I winced. “And that is not all, sister,” Marguerite added hastily. Her cheeks were flushed. “He even suggested we give up our positions and join holy orders, living at separate monasteries!”
I was now truly shocked. “But he is the King and you are his wife! That is what has been ordained for you!” I protested.
“I managed to convince him that God would be more pleased with us if the country was adequately run,” said Marguerite. “Eventually, he decided I was right and backed down. But I do not think he will ever be the husband he was, Eleanor. He wants to go back to the Holy Land some day, you know… He hopes to make good of the disaster that was.”
“My poor sister,” I said in a low voice. “Well, at least you do have a good pack of children to cheer you…a surprise to us all, for in early days did men not whisper that you were barren? Cruel creatures. They did the same to me.”
“I have borne nine children so far, and all but two still live.” Marguerite laughed bitterly. “Barren? Not I. Do you know what the problem was, Eleanor? It was Blanche, the King’s mother. She could not bear that we bedded together and did everything within her power to keep us apart. And Louis loved her so, he would not hear a word against her! In the end, though…” she folded her arms, “I won.”
“You certainly did,” I said, though privately I thought that
with King Louis’s recent monkish behaviour, maybe Blanche still was trying to gain the upper hand from somewhere in heaven. But the White Queen had failed ultimately to scupper her son’s marriage, for my sister did indeed have a huge brood of children, several born in recent years, despite Louis’ over-zealous piety. “Now I would like to meet all these nieces and nephews of mine!”
Marguerite smiled; the lines of care on her face vanished. Turning from the cold window-light, she was now like the Madonna, warmed by the fire’s orange glow. “Yes, you must meet them…Come with me.”
She guided me to the chambers that had been set up as a temporary nursery for the royal children. The youngest there were two girls, Blanche and Margaret, the latter only a few months old. Both were beauties and I thought once again of little Katharine at home in England with her nurses. She would have changed so much by the time I returned home. The next youngest of Marguerite’s brood was Peter, a quiet, shy and rather mousy boy, and then John Tristan, who had the black hair of our family and striking blue-green eyes. A handsome child.
“What an interesting name you’ve given him,” I said to Marguerite.
“Yes. Named for Tristan in the Romances. I loved them nearly as much as you did, Eleanor. And my little son has already had such an exciting life, just like an Arthurian hero. He was born in Egypt, you know, while we were on Crusade. I was in Damietta, and heavily with child when Louis was taken prisoner. As I lay in my confinement, I could hear the arrival of the Saracen army outside the walls. I had an old knight at my side, guarding me…”
“Even as you gave birth?” I cried, horrified. A man in the royal birthing chamber?
“Yes, even then. I told him that if the city fell, he must cut off my head immediately. I would not allow myself to be taken. Death would be preferable to what would befall a female captive.”
MY FAIR LADY: A Story of Eleanor of Provence, Henry III's Lost Queen Page 13